He walks towards you like that, his eyes dark with lust, his hands clenched. He reaches you and pins you against the wall. Your back slams against it, but he's so close you feel his breath on your face, his chest rising and falling against yours, and you don't care about the pain.

One of his knees part your legs just enough for him to rub against you. Your moans drown in his mouth. He pulls at your skirt and it falls to the ground. He grabs your panties and pull, ripping them off your body. One hand quickly dives in to check if you're ready for him. Of course you are. You are always ready for him. You were ready the moment he opened the door.

"So wet for me, doll."

Then he unzips his uniform just enough to pull himself out, lift you up, and push into you in one long deliberate stroke. Your whole world narrows down to the man holding you, nothing matters other than him inside you.

For a few moments he just keeps still, letting you both feel each other. His forehead resting against yours. Your breaths mingling. It had been a long mission, but now he was finally home. With you.

When he's ready to move, he's relentless. He uses up is remaining stamina, his remaining energy, anything left after the mission. His uniform chafing against you, his lips bruising on your neck, his hands hard on your hips. He comes quickly, biting down on your shoulder. You already came twice.

But he's not finished with you. On shaking legs, you lead him into the bathroom, undress him, help him wash away the sweat and dirt and blood and dust. You're on your knees under the spray of water. Tasting him, adoring him. Needing him. But he has other plans.

He pulls you up and carries you to the bed. The sheets become drenched, but what does that matter when he loves you so slow and intimately your heart breaks with every moan and heals with every groan. It doesn't matter when he fills you so good, surrounds you entirely, breathes with you.

He's home. With you.